Page 87 of The Man I Hate

I stared at the digital readout like it was a lie. I got off, reset the scale, and got back on. The same number displayed.

“I’ve lost 18 pounds,” I declared. “There’s no fucking way. How long has it been?”

“Since the day you fell asleep?”

“Since the day we started reading,” I replied. “That’s the last day I remember.”

“Let’s see,” she said. “Thirteen days since your diagnosis, and seven days since you got sick.”

“I’ve been in bed for seven fucking days?”

“Uh huh.”

“An entire week? Jesus.” I glanced at the shower. “I’m going to try to take a shower. I’ll call you when I’m done. Okay?”

“I’m sure a shower will feel good.”

“Talk to you in a minute.”

“Okay.”

I started to hang up, and then paused. “Anna?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I enjoyed it.”

I hung up the phone and placed it on the vanity. After brushing a week of yack from my teeth, I took a long, hot shower. As I washed my hair, I recalled bits and pieces of my time in bed. Hours upon hours of aching, periods of hot sweats, cold chills, and the endless nights of nightmares.

I stood in front of the mirror, drying myself with a towel. It came to me that my father was in the hospital. I’d all but forgotten. Frantic, I grabbed my phone from the vanity.

I opened the call log and thumbed through it. Missed calls from Pratt, missed calls from Anna, and calls I’d made to Anna—all of which were accepted—were the only calls on the log. I had no recollection of anything that was listed.

Dumbfounded, I called the hospital and asked about my father. According to the nurse, he was still listed as “stable”, but that was all she could say.

I asked about the risk of exposing myself to others. I was advised if someone has been symptom-free for 3 days and they developed their first symptoms or were diagnosed more than 10 days prior, they were no longer considered to be infectious.

Naked, disappointed, and a little confused, I sauntered into the kitchen. I opened the fridge. It was filled with Gatorade. The milk, however, was gone.

I searched the trash. An empty milk carton was at the top. Beside it, a plastic bag from Ralph’s.

I never shopped at Ralph’s.

I lifted the bag from the container and opened it. A crumpled receipt was at the bottom. I retrieved the receipt, unfolded it, and looked at the purchase.

30 bottles of Gatorade @ $0.99 each

1 digital thermometer @ $51.47

1 8 oz can of Starbuck’s Cold Brew @ 4.39

I folded the receipt neatly, discarded the trash bag, and got dressed. Feeling like recovery was well within my grasp, I picked up my bedroom, stripped the bed, and began washing the bedding.

I meandered past the kitchen. The three books I’d purchased were spread out beside one another in the island. I glanced at The History of Love.

I let out a long sigh.